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If it hadn't been for flash company, I should never have been so poor
Last night's excursion to the used book stores of Harvard Square failed to yield any secondhand Barbara Hambly, but I did manage to walk out of the basement of the Harvard Book Store with the playscript of Robert E. Sherwood's The Petrified Forest (1935). I have written about the 1936 film; it kicked off my undying interest in Leslie Howard. So far it looks as though it was a very faithful adaptation, allowing for some compression and the inevitable bowdlerization of the Production Code.1 Sherwood isn't as quite as novelistic with his stage directions as Shaw or O'Neill, but it's neat to recognize details of the movie sets in the playwright's scene-setting ("TIPPING IS UN-AMERICAN—KEEP YOUR CHANGE!") and compare his written ideas of his characters with their eventual portrayals and reception. Here's the first entrance of the attractive trash fire that is Howard's character:
Alan Squier has appeared in doorway, and, seeing that he has interrupted some amour, has paused to give them time to break. He is a thin, wan, vague man of about thirty-five. He wears a brown felt hat, brown tweed coat, and grey flannel trousers—which came originally but much too long ago from the best Saville Row tailors. He is shabby and dusty but there is about him a sort of afterglow of elegance. There is something about him—and it is impossible in a stage direction to say just what it is—that brings to mind the ugly word "condemned." He carries a heavy walking stick and a rucksack is slung over his shoulders. He is diffident in manner, ultra-polite and soft spoken, his accent is that of an Anglicized American.
What Sherwood can't fit into a stage direction is Alan's fatal aimlessness, his cynical sense of humor, his self-disappointment, and his almost willful inability to interact with life instead of grand gestures (not to mention his genuinely impressive hair), but it's a good place to start. Anyway, once he made it to film, I got this poem out of him. I am off to early dinner with my cousins and the visiting B.
1. It's not fatal, but it knocks some of the edges off the characters. Now that I know it existed, I prefer the original zing of Gabby saying affectionately to Alan, "You know—you talk like a God-damn fool." In describing his relationship with his publisher's wife, he quite candidly calls himself a gigolo. Gabby wants to know why she couldn't keep him instead: "And you wouldn't have to marry me, Alan. We'd just live in sin and have one hell of a time." He tells her gravely that she couldn't afford him.
Alan Squier has appeared in doorway, and, seeing that he has interrupted some amour, has paused to give them time to break. He is a thin, wan, vague man of about thirty-five. He wears a brown felt hat, brown tweed coat, and grey flannel trousers—which came originally but much too long ago from the best Saville Row tailors. He is shabby and dusty but there is about him a sort of afterglow of elegance. There is something about him—and it is impossible in a stage direction to say just what it is—that brings to mind the ugly word "condemned." He carries a heavy walking stick and a rucksack is slung over his shoulders. He is diffident in manner, ultra-polite and soft spoken, his accent is that of an Anglicized American.
What Sherwood can't fit into a stage direction is Alan's fatal aimlessness, his cynical sense of humor, his self-disappointment, and his almost willful inability to interact with life instead of grand gestures (not to mention his genuinely impressive hair), but it's a good place to start. Anyway, once he made it to film, I got this poem out of him. I am off to early dinner with my cousins and the visiting B.
1. It's not fatal, but it knocks some of the edges off the characters. Now that I know it existed, I prefer the original zing of Gabby saying affectionately to Alan, "You know—you talk like a God-damn fool." In describing his relationship with his publisher's wife, he quite candidly calls himself a gigolo. Gabby wants to know why she couldn't keep him instead: "And you wouldn't have to marry me, Alan. We'd just live in sin and have one hell of a time." He tells her gravely that she couldn't afford him.
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Leslie Howard Forever features many gifs and screencaps dedicated to its glory. I can't really blame them. [edit] I mean, look at that.
(For the record, the film's in the TCM buffer right now.)
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"Phantom Hat Creator" remains one of my favorite credits. Because of the English language's approach to compound nouns, I pictured at once a ghostly haberdasher and the image has never quite gone away.
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You're very welcome. Thank you for coming by to let me know.